


Caught in the Brambles

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Faunlock, Fauns & Satyrs, Fawnlock, Grief/Mourning, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://bennyslegs.tumblr.com/">Paula</a> and <a href="http://invisiblesarcasm.tumblr.com/">Krista</a> and their wonderful invention that is <a href="http://fawnlock.tumblr.com/">Fawnlock</a>.</p><p>I'm sorry for any errors. I'm really tired and need a nap, but I wanted to post the first part. I'll read through it later, but feel free to let me know if you catch any mistakes!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bennyslegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/gifts).



> For [Paula](http://bennyslegs.tumblr.com/) and [Krista](http://invisiblesarcasm.tumblr.com/) and their wonderful invention that is [Fawnlock](http://fawnlock.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I'm sorry for any errors. I'm really tired and need a nap, but I wanted to post the first part. I'll read through it later, but feel free to let me know if you catch any mistakes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young John Watson mourns his father's death, and comes across something strange in the woods behind his house.

John didn’t want to be in the house, or anywhere near it. And he really didn’t want to be around Harry. Harry, who could just talk about it like it hadn’t just happened, like they hadn’t just buried their father. But the weather was horrendous. The blizzard was so fierce their mother couldn’t even drive home from their aunt’s house ten minutes up the road. John and Harry would both never hear the end of it if John went out, on foot, in this weather.

He found he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything really. At the moment, all he could feel was hate. He hated the house, hated Harry, hated that his father was dead.

John unfurled himself from where he was hidden away in his father’s closet. Not that Harry had noticed he was hiding. No, she had been too busy talking to her stupid girlfriend until the storm disrupted the telephone line. And then she popped in movie after movie—they miraculously still had electricity—snacking on all the leftover grief food people had brought them the other day. John wouldn’t eat any of it.

As he stood, John came eye-to-eye with his father’s favourite jacket. Well, it was John’s favourite jacket. Thick cotton, with leather patches on the elbows and right shoulder. His father had promised it to him when he was older, when he was a man.

He was now, wasn’t he? A lot of people had said that to him. _You’re the man of the house now, John. Take good care of your mum. Look after these ladies._ So what if he was only thirteen? No one else seemed to care. The world didn’t seem to care when it sent a drunk driver on an icy road careening into his father.

John pulled the jacket off its hanger and shrugged it on. It was too big. He might never grow into it. His father had been broad-shouldered, and he was a skinny nothing. Not like Harry, who was tall for her age and had breasts by the time she was fourteen. John seemed to be taking after their mother instead, almost but not quite petite.

_You’ll grow yet. You’ve got plenty of time._

The memory of his father’s voice sent a shiver through John. He flipped up the corduroy collar and tugged it around his mouth and nose, inhaling long and deep. It barely smelt of his father. His mother had washed everything of his after it happened, and John hated her for it.

John went to his room, where he abandoned the jacket on his bed only long enough to pull on two wool jumpers, thick socks, boots, gloves, and scarf. Once the weight of his father’s jacket was on his shoulders again, he crept through the house to the back door. He found Harry asleep on the couch in the sitting room, the credits from some American film scrolling up the telly. He opened the door as quietly as he could, slipping out before the wind and snow and cold could wake his sister. He pulled his scarf over his face, and then he ran.

He ran away from the house and the road. He ran for the woods a dozen metres off.

 

John’s lungs and throat stung and his eyes watered and froze by the time he reached the trees. He slumped against the frozen bark of the nearest tree and wiped his eyes as best he could. He stared back in the direction of the house, listening, but sight and sound were obscured in the storm. If anyone was out looking for him, they would have just as difficult a time seeing him as he would seeing them.

He dove deeper into the woods, the wind whistling and winding through the trees until he was far enough in that both it and the snow were lessened. John kept walking, having nowhere to go and nowhere to be. Anywhere but that house. He pulled his father’s—his jacket closer.

It was startlingly quiet among the trees. The animals were all nestled away from the storm, which now sounded muffled through the layers of trunks and branches. It was so very quiet that John nearly shouted when he heard a gunshot.

Except he didn’t register it as a gun at first. It sounded so different from how it did on the telly and at the cinema. Once he figured it out, though, his heart began to thud against his chest. Hunting was illegal here. And it was so dim, what if they mistook him for an animal? He should go home, right away. But would moving make it more dangerous?

While John stood debating, slowly freezing, he heard something. He jumped, immediately wondering if he should have stayed still. Too late, so he turned and peered in the direction of the sound. No poachers. No anything. There was a rustle, a strange noise like a cry or a whimper. That was the first sound he had heard. There was movement in his periphery, and he looked down.

There, struggling against the underbrush, was the strangest thing John had ever seen. He had lived by this woods all his life, had played in them and gotten lost in them more times than he could count, but he had never seen anything like the thing that was before him now, snagged in the brambles.

It wasn’t even two feet tall. It had an almost human body. It was covered in light brown fur with large darker spots on its side, except for thick black fur around its neck that matched its messy curls. Its fur grew darker and thicker below the knees. Except for the fur, though, it looked like a little boy. The fur and the little antler stubs on its head and the deer-like ears emerging where human ears ought to be.

While John was staring, the little creature looked up, and he was immediately enveloped by surprise and fear. He struggled harder, returning its dark, wide-eyed gaze to John intermittently as he fought the brambles. It broke free, only to fall forward into the muddy snow. Only then was its puffy tail made visible.

John was about to turn and run home when he noticed all the scratch marks on the little thing. And it looked so cold as it got to its feet, legs wobbly and body trembling.

“It’s okay,” John whispered, crouching down and reaching out his hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

The boy-creature looked at John, his empty hand, and back at John. All the while he shook, lips bluish in the cold. As slowly as he could, John shrugged off his father’s jacket without a second thought, and opened it towards the boy.

He watched John and the jacket tentatively, completely unsure of what to do. Fear and cold seemed to war within him, and he looked like he wasn’t sure if he should run or try to get warm.

“My name’s John,” he said quietly. He smiled, despite the shiver starting in his own body. “Can you understand me?”

John thought it was going to nod, but they were interrupted by another gunshot. The deer-boy scrambled, but John lunged forward and drowned it in its jacket. He hefted the bundle into his arm and turned tail, making for home.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he panted against the jacket, hugging the struggling creature tight. “I’m going to keep you safe, promise. Don’t worry. Sh, sh. It’s alright.”

The little thing finally went still as they neared the edge of the woods. When John slowed, it poked its head from within the jacket and looked up at John. John smiled down at it and pointed through the trees.

“My house is only a little bit further. I can patch you up and get you something hot to eat if you want.”

He only kept staring at John, a little less afraid, but eyes still wide. He turned to follow the direction John’s finger indicated, and immediately resumed its fight for freedom.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

But the boy let out such a loud keening noise that John dropped him in surprise. Before he could catch him, before he could apologise, the creature was running away faster than John would have thought possible, back into the woods, John’s jacket trailing behind him.

There was no hope for it. A sudden, unexpected sadness took John. He trudged back to the house. The storm was beginning to let up, but he was still blue all over by the time he stumbled into the house.

Harry cried out when she saw him, yelling at him for being stupid and almost getting her into trouble. John didn’t listen all that much. He was back to not caring, and the sadness had turned to anger once more during his trek back from the woods.

He finally lost it and screamed at his sister, “SHUT UP.”

It took them both by surprise. Harry stood dumb, but John collected himself and half-ran, half-tripped up the stairs. He locked himself in the bathroom and started the tub. He stripped out of his icy clothes and climbed under the spray of the shower before it was even hot. He didn’t much believe in God, but he prayed anyway that the little boy—or whatever he was—would be safe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being wounded and invalided home from Afghanistan, John struggles with what little his future seems to hold in store for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I haven't had a chance to check for errors. I just really wanted to get this posted.

It had been three days since John's mother picked him up at the station, eight since the stitches came out, sixteen since he was flown out of the desert, and seventeen since an eight-gram bit of metal ruined his shoulder and his life.

Yesterday he started to limp.

The exam his mother was driving him back from had proved useless. Nothing was sprained or broken or torn. The doctor suggested discomfort could have been from disuse. After all, John had spent the last couple weeks on bed-rest after a nonstop, constantly active lifestyle. It could be a shock to the body as much as the mind. The prescribed treatment: short, mild walks a few times a day.

“I'm tired,” he told his mother when she pulled into the driveway. “I'm going to lay down for a bit.”

“Alright, dear.” She smiled the same smiled she had given him since he came home. It was concerned, but also fearful and desperate. There was nothing she could do for her baby boy, and that was a mother's job—to take care of her children.

John forced the best smile he could, for her sake. “I'll take a walk after.”

“And then well have a nice tea, hm?”

“Sounds good.”

John was unsteady on the stairs, from both his limp and now the metal cane in his hand. He rested it against the nightstand and sat on his too small bed. He never had grown quite as much as he had hoped as a kid, though, so even as an adult he could fit somewhat reasonably. He toed off his shoes and lay on the covers, closed his eyes, and forced himself to sleep.

 

It couldn't have been more than a few minutes when John woke, breathless and sweating. His shoulder ached and itched. He grasped the handle of his cane and stumbled down the hall to the loo.

After splashing his face, John stared at his reflection. Closer to forty than thirty, out of work, and out of his element. He couldn't live in the country. It was suffocating. He needed life; he needed busy.

He needed London.

John sighed and ran his hand through his hair. His first thought was he'd have to get it cut soon. Except he didn't need to because his life was no longer run by army regulation.

Nausea swept over him, and not for the first time over the past several days. He flattened his hair best he could, gripped his cane, and made his way downstairs.

“Going for a walk,” he called into the house as he stepped out the back door. He shut it before his mother could call him back in and limped towards the woods.

 

John didn’t look back at the house once, even when he reached the tree line. He paused, eyes and mind glazing over for a moment as his gaze wandered across tree bark and through the low branches.

A cool breeze startled him back to awareness. He gripped the cane until his knuckle went white and stepped into the shade.

He walked until his leg and hand trembled with every step, his shoulder stiff and painful. It’d been too long since his last dose of painkillers. And he kept walking.

Eventually, his mind succumbed to the needs of his body, and he slumped against a tree, sliding down to the roots and grass at its base, sleeve running against the bark.

He couldn’t live like this. What was he supposed to do? Even if he went to London. Get a job at a surgery, a hospital if he was lucky? No, not with his leg. He wouldn’t be able to stand for hours on end, and his shoulder was bound to stiffen up at inconvenient times for the rest of his life. He knew how the body worked. He was broken, and no strength of mind would fix him.

There was a rustle in the underbrush just in the corner of his vision, and he was jerked out of his self-loathing long enough to focus his eyes and turn his head very slowly. At first he couldn’t see anything.

Then he made it out, between the thick brambles, the pale contrast of velvet. He was surprised a deer would venture this close, especially alone and in midsummer.

John stared. Something was off. The antlers had to belong to quite a mature buck, but they were far too close to the ground. The brambles weren’t high enough to conceal it.

As he kept looking, gazing, trying to discern details, there was a shift. And then he saw something familiar, something from a childhood dream he had never forgotten, but one he hadn’t thought of in at least two decades.

Silver eyes, curious and—human.

John swallowed, shut his eyes a moment, and opened them again. The eyes were gone, as were the antlers. He let out a breath and pushed his knuckles into his eyes.

He forced himself to his feet, but his leg had stiffened badly enough that he immediately went crashing face-first to the ground. He swung up his arms to brace himself, his shoulder screaming objection to the sudden movement.

But he didn’t slam into the earth as he expected. He found himself suspended, a fierce grip on his good arm. It steadied him, and he turned around.

It took John a moment to move past the eyes to the brown furred face, dark specks like freckles on his cheek and around his tan nose. The once black collar of fluff had grown into a sleek dark brown. He was naked, except for the fur of course—the fur and a very old, very familiar jacket.

“That’s mine,” John blurted.

The man looked at the sleeve of the jacket he wore, back at John, and nodded.

“You’re real.”

Dark lips quirked into the shadow of a smile.

“Or I’m dreaming. Again.” John shook his head. “You were a dream.”

“No.”

The quiet baritone surprised John. He looked sharply up, not quite sure if he had heard the voice after all.

“I waited.”

“What?”

“The next day. I waited by the trees for you to come back. For your jacket.”

“I caught a cold.”

“Of course.” He reached out, fingertips ghosting over John’s cheek. John shivered and the hand fell away. “So bare.”

“Who- What are you?”

Instead of answering, he shrugged off the jacket and folded it up. He stared at it for a long moment before offering it to John.

John took it and held it against his chest.

The strange creature frowned and his gaze shifted. “You’re hurt.”

“Oh.” John followed the gaze to his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Shot.” He scowled. “Shot by men.”

“Yes.”

The man turned on his heel and darted back into the woods, out of sight before John could call after him.

“Wait!” Hugging the jacket to his chest, he tried following, only to get caught in the first bunch of brambles. He swore, dropping the jacket and scrabbling with the plant, scratching his hands and arms in the process. By the time he was free, his shirt had several small holes and a few tears. He picked up his jacket and shook it out. It was in amazing condition considering twenty-five years had passed since he lost it to the little scared deer-boy.

“Did you shoot them back?”

John looked up, but he couldn’t locate the source of the voice. It seemed close, little more than a whisper. “No. I was a doctor.”

“Doctor?”

“I fixed people up, other people who got shot.”

“A healer.”

“Yeah.”

There was the soft pressure of fingers on John’s shoulder, just around the edges of his wound. He shuddered, but otherwise remained as still as he could.

“Does it hurt?” The voice was just behind his ear.

John felt the warm breath, but he didn’t move. “No. Well, yes. But not because of you.”

The hand retreated anyway. “Thank you.”

“For what?” John chuckled.

“Helping me.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I know. I would have thanked you then, but I was...”

“Young?”

“Scared.”

“It’s fine.” John turned around, and the face was shockingly close to his. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock.”

He smiled at the odd name. “John.” He offered his hand in the small distance between them.

Sherlock looked down at it, confused.

“Sorry.” He dropped his hand. “It’s how we—humans—greet people when we meet them.”

“But we already met.” Sherlock’s gaze flitted back to meet his eyes.

“I suppose so.”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his nose briefly below John’s ear. When he pulled back he said, “That’s how we say hello.”

John blinked rapidly and cleared his throat.

“Bad?”

“Uh, no.” John shrugged, immediately regretting the motion and wincing at the twinge. “I guess not. Just strange.”

There was a vibration in John’s pocket just before his mobile rang. Sherlock shrank back, glowering, and John hurried to answer it without checking who it was.

“Hullo?”

“John dear,” his mother’s worried voice came through. “You’ve been gone for hours. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry. Lost track of time. I’ll head home, yeah?”

“Okay. Take your time. I love you.”

“You, too.” He hung up and pocketed it. “Sorry.”

“Humans are strange,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Speak for yourself.” John smiled, but only briefly. “I should get going, though.”

“Will you come back?”

He paused, looking down at his jacket. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re new.”

That was all Sherlock said before turning and darting back through the trees. This time, John didn’t follow. He knew he didn’t have to.

It wasn’t until after tea that John realised he had left his cane in the woods. He hadn’t limped the entire walk home.


End file.
